


Bacchanalia

by furchte_die_schildkrote



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:39:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5949502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furchte_die_schildkrote/pseuds/furchte_die_schildkrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Crowley was kissed by an angel, Aziraphale had wine on his breath, a nearly full moon hung in the sky, and Rome was burning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bacchanalia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lexigent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexigent/gifts).



“You really let yourself go there, angel,” Crowley said with a happily appreciative slur in his voice. Crowley and Aziraphale sat at a carved stone table in a quiet corner in an otherwise crowded tavern in Rome.

 

“Nodmuhfault, darling. The wine just kept coming.”

 

Crowley wrinkled his face and waved his hand like a dazed cat trying to paw at its own nose. “You must have had enough wine to fill two of those jugs. I'm still a bit fuzzy on what it takes to kill a human, but I am almost positive that you would be dead right now if you were human.”

 

Aziraphale vigorously shook his head, and put a visibly concentrated effort in forming a coherent response. “No. No, I don't, not that much—. No.”

 

“You were poured two cups. _Two!_ ” he said, emphatically holding up four fingers. “The cup refilled itself the rest of the time.”

 

“Thaswhat I said! Just kept coming!”

 

“'Cause of your— _hic—_ because you're an angel. Angel magic.”

 

“Not magic,” Aziraphale said, with a defensive scowl creeping in over his previous expression, which could only be described as pure intoxication. “We do _not_ do magic. We perform miracles. Physical, earthly manifestations of the Lord's divine power.”

 

Crowley snorted. “You getting drunker than a pig's ass is a physical manifestation of God's divine power?”

 

“Maybe not, but it is still a miracle. 'Sides, I am off duty tonight, so to speak. Strict orders to take the night off.”

 

“The night off?”

 

“My side knows your side has some big blaze planned for tonight. Apparently it is in line with my side's plans,” Aziraphale said, miming out every sentence. “Lucky for you I can't infer—interfect—interlope. I am getting _very_ good at squelching the forces of darkness.”

 

Crowley slouched back in his seat, as a confused wave of disappointment ran over him. He was not especially invested in what would eventually be known as the Great Fire of Rome. Not his project— too blunt and ostentatious for his tastes. Even so, seeing Aziraphale lay down without a fight was boringly infuriating. Even worse was the sudden reminder that, ultimately, they were both merely soldiers on opposing sides in the eternal war between Good and Evil, and every turn in their endless game of plots, counter-plots, and counter-counter-plots were nothing more than battles in that war. It stripped their game of the friendly intimacy that had sprung up between them, making it part of something epically vast, awesomely grand, and ineffably petty.

 

“You don't like it,” Crowley said, dumbly. Not much else to say. “The fire.”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

“Me neither. But Rome has to burn. Or else we burn, which is even worse.”

 

“I don't much want that either,” Aziraphale admitted.

 

“Me neither,” Crowley said with a sigh that lay something between resigning oneself to an unpleasant inevitability and finding the seeds of an idea that might just offer an escape.

 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale with a cautiously reckless and drunkenly mischievous smile. “Rome has to burn, but not all of Rome. We stay here. Drink more—a lot more—and let's say the fire skips this corner of street. Rome still burns. The plans stay intact. But you still do something.”

 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, rolling the proposal over in his wine-muddied mind. “That is a terrible idea. What will I say to the higher-ups?”

 

“Sorry?” Crowley suggested with a smirk.

 

Aziraphale answered with a disbelieving silence.

 

Unable to let the idea drop, Crowley looked at Aziraphale. “Let's roll for it.”

 

“Gambling is a sin.”

 

“Can angels sin? I thought everything you did was automatically a blessing. Besides, I am a master tempter.” Crowley continued his stare, his expression turning playfully challenging. “Even roll says you go with my suggestions. Odd says you don't.”

 

“You can't possibly expect me to gamble away my orders,” Aziraphale said, his voice rising and panicked.

 

“Odd says I tell you three schemes my side has in the works. I'll even let you throw the dice.”

 

“They'll have your skin for that.”

 

“I should be molting soon anyways.”

 

Aziraphale sighed and stretched out his hand. A pair of dice flew across the tavern and landed in the angel's palm. The men who were playing with it a moment earlier would turn away from gambling and drink that night.

 

Crowley grinned, both at his little victory, and at Aziraphale's tendency towards theatrics when drunk.

 

Aziraphale rolled the dice. Snake eyes.

 

He looked up at Crowley with fire in his eyes. “You cheated.”

 

Crowley shrugged.

 

“You cheated!”

 

“I always cheat. It's what I do. You still accepted. I win.”

 

Aziraphale downed his newly filled wine cup, now filled with something remarkably stronger. He leaned forward at kissed Crowley sloppily and drunkenly.

"You win."

 


End file.
